The Democracy Diaries
by Random Antagonist
Summary: The second part of the story of the future dictator of Genovia. Don't read if you can't handle a little girl-on-girl slash.
1. In Which I Sing And RolePlay

"Flew in from Manhattan via New Jersey, didn't get to sleep last night. On the way my girl Satine was on my knee--man, that was a long long flight! I'm back in Genovia. Don't know how lucky you are, uh-huh!"  
  
Queenie tapped me on the shoulder. "Rachelle, please observe the city. There are some lessons to be learned."  
  
I watched. Tobeins is a beautiful and scenic city, full of classic architecture and picturesque people. Or, rather, Tobeins is a decaying pit, full of crumbling buildings and and shambling derelicts. Take your pick. I guess it depends on whether you take your descriptive style from the Travel section of the New York Times or from P.J. O'Rourke.  
  
Frankly, it looked like any big city. We passed through fields of waving alien herbs, then through sprawling suburbs filled with Gaudi mansions and Frank Lloyd Wright tract houses, through blocks filled with brightly colored shops squeezed in between fading walk-up apartments.  
  
Most of the people in the city were small and round, with mouse-brown skin and dark brown hair. They were bustling around busily, good citizens going about their daily business. Queenie told me that they were Esnuda.  
  
"Are there any Rhaije down here?" I asked.  
  
"They generally don't like to live down here, but the few that do don't live very well at all. They're mostly drunks and homeless." Queenie sniffed disdainfully.  
  
"So then what are we?"  
  
"A mixture of both. The royal family actually stems from the sixteenth century, when the High Priestess of the Esnuda and the Warlord of the Rhaije combined families."  
  
"In response to the proto-Mafia families of the city-states of Italy," I finished the passage from the history book. "How could I have forgotten."  
  
Queenie nodded. "Very good. You've been studying your history. Ah, here we are!"  
  
"Finally," Mia yawned. "I wanna go to sleep."  
  
"You've been sleeping for the last twelve hours," Queenie snapped.  
  
"In little bits!" Mia protested. "This is the palace, right?"  
  
My God, was it ever a palace. No stately castle with flying buttresses and gargoyles for the ever-tasteful Genovian royalty. It was a huge stone wedding cake, with curly gold bits and horrible statues.  
  
"An ostentious display of bourgeouise excess if I ever saw one," I muttered.  
  
"You've also been studying your Marx, I see." Queenie sighed and waited for Joseph to open the door.  
  
I'm not going to waste a lot of time with describing the palace. Yes, it was big. Yes, it was gaudy and had a lot of red velvet and sweeping spiral staircases. Yes, there was a great deal of mahogany and old paintings. I was not favorably impressed.  
  
Satine knew her way around the place. She showed me the inner workings of the palace, the hidden bits that only the only the workers ever get to see. She showed me around the kitchens and the laundry rooms, the side corridors and hidden passages that to safe chambers where a deposed monarch could hide from the ravaging hodes that want the royal head on a pike.  
  
I was pleased. "Satine, do you have a map of these, or did you just memorize them?"  
  
Satine smiled. We were sitting in my room, which was several hundred times larger than my mom's apartment. "They are all up here." She tapped her head. "I have had much time to explore."  
  
"No maps, then? You'll just have to remind me every so often."  
  
"We can go on expeditions into the hidden depths of the palace," suggested Satine.  
  
I nodded. "A very good idea."  
  
Satine looked at the floor and shyly swung her feet. "My lady. We have spent quite a lot of time together, and yet..."  
  
"And yet?" I prompted.  
  
"And yet we have never..."  
  
"Never what?"  
  
"You have heard of the droit de seignur, have you not?"  
  
Oh no. Where was this leading? "Are you getting married or something?"  
  
Satine snuggled up to me. "In some villages in Florin, it is the custom for the young women to be betrothed to a suitable young man as soon as they are old enough to learn a trade--usually at nine or ten. Then they go out to make their way in the world and earn some money for their families."  
  
"And the men?"  
  
"The men stay home to tend the farm, milady. The girls come back when they are old enough to marry, at eighteen years of age. The day they return, they are welcomed with a huge feast and a wedding party. Then they give their money to the village and settle down and use their talents to serve the entire community."  
  
"That sounds like a good way to do things," I said. "Does it work?"  
  
"Very well, usually. I may be doing that very thing."  
  
I sat up. "You're going back tomorrow?"  
  
"Well...Technically, I have no plans. But for the sake of argument, say that I am going back to my village tomorrow to be married." She twined her slim arms around my neck. "This is the last day that my lady and I shall ever spend together, for tomorrow I shall belong to the village." She looked into my eyes. "Does my lady not wish to exercise her right, as a noblewoman, to claim me for her own?"  
  
My legs were starting to tingle. Role-playing. I had to keep my head. She was playing the most cliched scenario in the book and yet she knew exactly how to turn me on.  
  
"For the sake of argument," I said, "let us say that if I claim you, I shall be able to keep you as my own."  
  
Satine smiled. "My lady," she whispered, "claim me." 


	2. In Which I Encounter Revolutionaries

I was in a really, really good mood.   
  
For one thing, I was back in my native land. The place my ancestors came from. I knew, deep in my heart, that I belonged here and only here for the rest of my life.   
  
For another thing, my personal maid was a fantastic bed partner.   
  
Yes, Satine and I had finally hooked up. It had been wonderful. I'm not going to regale you with the details, except to tell you that it was everything I dreamed and far, far more.   
  
I would have liked to stay in bed and cuddle with Satine for a while the next morning, but I had work to do. I crept out of the room at three A.M., combed some blue through my hair and re-spiked it, slipped on the grottiest pair of jeans and most raggedy T-shirt I could find, then slipped out of the palace and onto the streets of Tobeins.   
  
The city wasn't exactly deserted, but there was none of the hustle and bustle that had choked the streets during the daytime. I saw some workers hurrying home from a shift at one of the factories and some drunks staggering around and singing old Lechan folksongs. And that was it for about an hour.   
  
At about 4, I was ready to head home. Nothing was open, not even bars. I sat down on a bench under a lamppost to rest my feet when someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Chekada japar na hintadi?"   
  
I tried to translate in my head. "Japar" was the second-person conjugation in the intentional verb tense, and the "-ada" ending meant a present progressive; the "-adi" signified a gerund. Someone was asking me if I was doing something to something else...I gave up. "I'm sorry, I don't speak much Lechan."   
  
"You are the, eh, Americast?" the voice asked. I looked up to see a huge woman standing in front of me. She was seven feet tall, and her head was shaved except for a topknot from which protruded a blonde, almost white ponytail that was whipping around her shoulders. She had wrapped her torso in strips of white linen, like a mummy, and she was wearing Calvin Klein jeans and Nikes. The juxtaposition was jarring.   
  
She grinned at me. Her teeth were filed. She was obviously one of the derelict Rhaije that Queenie had told me about.   
  
"Yes, I'm the American," I quavered. How had news gotten around so quickly? "Please don't kill me, I'm not carrying any money..."   
  
"Is ok, ok? I am from the Kos."   
  
"The what?"   
  
"The K.O.S., the Kinnen ol Syolah."   
  
"Kinnen..."   
  
"Wings of Freedom, I think it means in Americast."   
  
"I've never heard of you."   
  
She frowned. "No? I was told to look for a girl with blue hair."   
  
"Who told you that?"   
  
"Our contact. We have allies at the Palace who work with us."   
  
Things were beginning to fall into place. "You're a revolutionary group."   
  
"Yes, that is it." She held out her hand. At first I thought that her entire arm was blue. Then I realized that she was just so heavily tattooed with tiny stipples that it looked like her arm was blue. It was probably a tribal pain ritual or something. "Liyish, vekapas meih. Please, come with me. I am La Nenn."   
  
The meeting place was a tiny room that we reached from a trapdoor on the roof of an old factory. There was a desk, a few crates, and some folding chairs, but nobody was sitting. La Nenn had already given the password (something that sounded like "sa-ward fitpsh" that I couldn't quite catch) and barged in without waiting for anyone to open the door. I got the impression that the other three people in the room were somewhat intimidated by her.   
  
"This is the Americast that the woman at the Palace sent to us. She is expert on politics." She turned to me. "This is Charyto, Natalyi, and Zhrien. They are the ones who started this group. They are all Esnuda." She said this with a sneer, and I was forcefully reminded of what Queenie had told me about the Rhaije holding the Esnuda in contempt.   
  
I waved. "Hello. I am..." I couldn't tell them who I was. Being a duchess and a revolutionary at the same time was clearly not going to work. "My name is Johanna."   
  
I don't know why that was the first name that popped into my head. It was probably because La Nenn reminded me so much of her. Yes, that was it. I was pleased that I'd worked that out.   
  
Charyto gave a little half-bow, half-nod. "I am quite glad you're here. We have a need for you. Our plans have all failed."   
  
"Only because we could figure not out how to put the bombs into tea," said Zhrien.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Power to the revolutionaries!" squeaked Natalyi.   
  
"What?!"   
  
Charyto shrugged. "Natalyi does not speak English. She only knows what she has memorized from our books."   
  
"We been have trying to dispose with of the royals," said Zhrien.   
  
"What, like killing them?"   
  
"Yes!" La Nenn's eyes were shining. "Kill them and allow the Genovian people to take over."   
  
"Not a good idea," I said hurriedly.   
  
"Why not?"   
  
I tried to grab a reason. "Well, the people think that the royals are doing fine. They won't be ready to take over."   
  
"The people united can do anything!" exclaimed Natalyi.   
  
"If Genovia was ready for the people to take over, then everyone would be here right now. But they're not. We need to tell them."   
  
"Tell them what?" asked Charyto.   
  
"That they need to take over." I was getting into my idea. "We have to spread the word that the royal family is bad. Let the people know how they're oppressing us. Then and only then will the people rise up and STRIKE!"   
  
"Too long, it will take that," objected Zhrien. "The time by when all will know of the oppression from the Queen is when it will be too late."   
  
"We have time," said La Nenn. "We have enough time for everything." 


	3. In Which Mia Does Not Totally Mess Up

Mia smiled beatifically. "I thought that was a pretty good speech I made, didn't you?"   
  
"You are aware that Queenie is going to give you hell for that," I said.   
  
Mia shrugged. It had only been a week since we'd come into the country, and our first public appearance had gone very strangely. I had, as per instructions, sat quietly on a chair in the background. Not as per instructions, I had gritted my teeth and sat on my hands.   
  
There had been millions of people standing outside the balcony. I couldn't remember off the top of my head what the exact population figure of Genovia was--somewhere between 12 and 40 million--but a good fraction of it seemed to be listening.   
  
Seeing those people cheering, waving little Genovian flags, had been a charge for me. When Queenie had pushed me to the podium, I had looked out on the peasants shouting their huzzahs and almost lost it. Luckily, Queenie had yanked me back and sent out Mia, so I hadn't had a chance to embarrass myself.   
  
Mia was supposed to have given a nice little speech about parking meters. Unfortunately, she had decided that it was a good time to harangue the Genovians about their pollution habits. I very much doubted that anybody in the crowd cared. The assimilated Esnuda were industrious and resourceful enough not to have any garbage; they used everything they had over and over until it completely disintegrated. The Rhaije...well, if I knew anything about the Rhaije, they weren't about to let anyone tell them where to toss their trash.   
  
It was almost funny, sitting up there and seeing Mia make a complete hash out of her first public appearance. I wouldn't have minded if she had thought it out and given a good, rousing speech. But she repeated things, she stumbled over words, and Queenie cut off the power to her microphone before she could finish. Most unimpressive.   
  
Queenie swept Mia into her sitting room the second we got in. I could hear her yelling from outside, although I could only catch a few key phrases.   
  
Finally they emerged. Queenie stalked off in a huff, and Mia sat next to me. She was quivering with rage.   
  
"I'm not going to let her push me around like that," she whispered.   
  
"Good idea," I said.   
  
"I'm not going to sit there and look pretty and give dull speeches and do what she wants! I'm going to rebel!"   
  
"You do that," I said.   
  
"I'm going to show that woman that she can't keep me down!" Mia proclaimed. I almost laughed. Mia turned to me. "Rachel, can you help me? I'm a princess. I should be able to use my power for good."   
  
"Get a good speechwriter," I advised her.   
  
Queenie poked her head into the room. "Rachelle, may I see you for just a moment?"   
  
"I'm very worried," Queenie said, once we were in her boudoir. "I was counting on Mia being pliable. You are the only one who is fit to lead the revolution."   
  
I shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you," I said.   
  
"I can't have her appealing to the masses! I can't have her making speeches like this. She is meant to be the spoiled child of five hundred years of aristocracy, not some kind of rebel."   
  
I raised an eyebrow. "You think that speech appealed to the masses?"   
  
"Darling, the whole environmentalist movement is Communistic in ideology anyway. The whole Earth belongs to everyone, so we all have to clean it up...The proletariats eat that dross up with a spoon. I know you've read your Marx."   
  
"Yeah, but think about the people Mia was talking to," I reminded her. "The working class, right? They don't care about the environment. They want their bread and their circuses."   
  
Queenie nodded. "Good point, darling. But that makes no difference. She is breaking type and we can't have her do that. The entire point of the revolution is throwing off the chains of tradition."   
  
"I thought it was about freedom from the elitist ruling family," I said.   
  
"What's the difference?" Queenie shook her head. "This will never do."   
  
"You haven't spent enough time reading the American gossip pages, have you?" I asked. "Celebrities and rich heiresses care about the environment. The proles don't. This is just another example of the elite making a big fuss over things that aren't important."   
  
Queenie considered this. "I see what you mean. Try it out with the K.O.S., won't you?"   
  
"That's another thing I have to ask you about," I said. "Did you start the K.O.S. just for this?"   
  
Queenie laughed. "Goodness, no. The K.O.S. was a little traditionalist group long before I even came to power. I managed to decimate their ranks until they were down to--what is it now, four members? But now, of course, I have to build them up again."   
  
I patted her on the shoulder. "I think you can leave that part to me."   
  
Queenie turned to her dressing table and drew a cigarette out of a packet. "No, darling. I'll do everything, remember? All you have to do is what I tell you."   
  
I snatched the cigarette out of her hand. "Fuck that. If you wanted someone to look pretty, why didn't you just recruit Mia and be done with it? You said that you chose me to lead the revolution because I had experience with it. Instead, you're feeding me plans and setting me up with a little playgroup?"   
  
"I am the leader of this country," Queenie icily reminded me.   
  
"So? It's a revolution. The whole point is that the leader is no longer in power. Now, if you want me to stay here, you let me do what you asked me to in the first place."   
  
"Certainly. But how will you know that I'm not still setting things up behind the scenes?"   
  
"Like how?"   
  
Queenie took the cigarette from my hands and lit it. "You want to swell the ranks of the K.O.S. on your own. But how will you know that every young Genovian who signs up wasn't sent by me?"   
  
"I won't," I said. "Not for sure. But as soon as I get them organized, I can have them storm the palace and execute the royals. Then it won't matter who you manipulated before, because you won't be able to anymore."   
  
Queenie laughed. "Good girl," she said. "I think you will be a good leader after all."   
  
The Genovian parliament met the next day. Queenie gave a speech apologizing for Mia's behavior. Erik Blare gave a fiery monologue in which he praised Mia for caring about the environment. I noted that there were only three politicians present who seemed to be even vaguely Esnuda, and only one who might have been part Rhaije.   
  
"They're all from Sweden or England," Queenie explained to me as we watched the proceedings. "Natives generally don't run for seats because they know that I can overturn any decisions they make." I filed that information away for future use.   
  
Three more politicians got up to make speeches. One was from the Socialist party and said that she agreed with Blare; one was from the Royalist party and said that he agreed with Queenie; one was an Independent and wanted to talk about the parking meters.   
  
Afterwards, Blare got up and proposed a vote on environmental standards. He wanted a littering fine.   
  
While he made an unnecessarily impassioned speech, I thought about how to discredit him. Queenie had said that Blare was set to take over the Parliament. If the Socialist contingency displaced the royals by the next election, there would be no reason for my revolution to take place.   
  
Mia nudged me and pointed at him. "Look. Isn't he gross?" Blare was not particularly handsome. He resembled Michael Moore, but slightly shorter and without a beard. I was certain he was wearing a toupee.   
  
I shrugged. "What do you want? He's a politician. They aren't supposed to be hot."   
  
"Howard Dean's hot," Mia told me.   
  
I blinked. "What?"   
  
"Lilly's working on his campaign! She e-mailed me some pictures of him that she found, and he was really cute when he was younger."   
  
I slumped down in my seat. "Mia, why don't you listen to the nice man talking. See, he's talking about your little pollution speech. Doesn't that make you happy?"   
  
Mia leaned forward. "Yeah! He is!" She squealed and hugged me. "Thank you, Rachel!"   
  
I gingerly hugged her back and hoped she wasn't going completely psychotic. 


End file.
